Don't Wake Me
by eljayessaitch
Summary: Really short one shot of Sherlock's return, post RF. Another one of those scenes stuck in my head that wanted out.


**I'm going to try to do this right this time. **

**Disclaimer: I own no intellectual property of any kind.**

**I was inspired to write this from the song "Don't wake me" from the band Skillet. **

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Don't Wake Me

When John was younger, he had flying dreams. Like Superman. Put up your arms and fly. He always woke from those dreams happy, and generally only had them when things were all right in his world. He hadn't had a flying dream since before his first Afghanistan tour.

Now he had Sherlock dreams. Fragments, generally, although sometimes he had more coherent ones – one memorable dream involved Sherlock in an American shopping mall, buying a pair of trainers – but he woke up from his Sherlock dreams as happy as used to from his flying dreams. Happy for a moment, then he would remember. The fall, the blood, the void that was left. Despite the emotional toll the dreams took, John couldn't help but wish he had more of them. He knew he should have moved on by now. It just. . .wasn't happening.

In his flying dreams, he would gently come back to consciousness, gradually realizing that no, he couldn't fly, and yes, he was probably sleeping. His Sherlock dreams hadn't worked out that way. In fact, more often than not, he would wake up his muscles tensed and heart pounding, after an involuntary epinephrine dump by his adrenal glands as the result of some shadowy dream threat that a year ago would have been real.

So now, when he found himself, once again, chasing after Sherlock and his longer legs, he was vaguely aware that his dream self was both anxious and euphoric. The surroundings were indistinct – Piccadilly, maybe?, no, just a room. Only Sherlock seemed real when he suddenly stopped and turned to face him.

"John." The ice gray eyes locked onto his. "John."

John couldn't answer, couldn't make his mouth move. Sherlock began to melt into the darkness that surrounded them, although his voice remained steady. "John." It was maddening, not being able to respond. He could even _smell _him for God's sake, the soap Sherlock liked, his aftershave. "John." Just darkness now, and John began to wonder if he had ever in his life been able to detect an odor in a dream. But he was still dreaming, because the voice was still there, beginning to have a trace of annoyance in it. "John." He finally got control of his lungs and sucked in a gasp of air. He couldn't see him, but he knew Sherlock was there. He could hear his breathing, he could smell him, he could sense he was there. But if he opened his eyes, abandoned the dream, he would be awake, and Sherlock would be gone. Again.

"Open your eyes, John. You've been awake. Who is Crystal, and why does she care what is in your freezer?"

John's eyes did open then, and he jerked upright in bed, heart once again pounding, to see Sherlock Holmes - coat, scarf, and dark curls - sitting in the chair by the bed, scrolling through John's text messages on his mobile. His password protected mobile. "Jennifer wants to know if you're available today. She's the blond, right? I'll send your regrets. Sarah's back, too, I see. I'm surprised Molly and Donovan aren't part of your harem." Sherlock set the phone back on the bedside table. "Get up. Get your handgun and your coat. We only have three hours until dawn."

"Sherlock?" John felt dizzy, and his vision briefly tunneled. "Bloody hell. . ."

"No time, John." Sherlock picked up a pair of pants where John had folded them on the chair and tossed them on the bed. "Cab's waiting."

John stared at Sherlock's back as he reached for the hook that held John's coat. His mind was stuck on one idea _-Sherlock, it's Sherlock -_ and he wasn't sure if he wanted to kill or kiss the lanky git. It suddenly registered that if Sherlock knew Jennifer was a blond he'd been around for a bit, and the "kill" idea started sounding really good. Before it sounded better than good, John took a deep breath and reached for his trousers. "Where are we going?" he asked. And then he was flying.

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**A/N - I'm really glad Gatiss is writing the real thing, but every time I hear the song all I can think of is John in mourning. Thanks for looking!**


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